


Sweet Pussy

by Saucery



Series: Spideypool Stories [3]
Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: A Living Gwen, A Redeemed Harry Osborn, Alternate Universe - Animals, Animal Abuse, Animals, Bad Puns, Catpool, Cats, Crack, Crime Fighting, Dark Past, Deadpool Is A Cat, Disfigurement, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I MEAN WADE IS A CAT, Implied/Referenced Torture, Interspecies Awkwardness, Loneliness, Love, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Mostly Gen, My Own Version Of Movie Canon, Neglect, Not Canon Compliant, Pets, Protectiveness, Rescue, Stalking, Surreal, Trauma, Vigilantism, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6251710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spider-Man had a reputation as a smalltime hero, but he’d never actually rescued a cat from a tree, before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Pussy

**Author's Note:**

> I’m writing cat!Deadpool. Catpool. What is my life?

* * *

 

Spider-Man had a reputation as a smalltime hero, but he’d never actually rescued a cat from a tree, before.

Or rescued the tree from the cat. Or the entire suburb from the cat, because the residents seemed weirdly afraid of it, given that it was… just a cat. To make the whole situation even more surreal, it was named Deadpool, because apparently everybody from the mailman to the high school principal had a betting pool going about when it’d finally kick the bucket. It had been around for forever.

“That ugly sonovabitch?” said the grizzly middle-aged guy in whose backyard the tree was. It was a giant oak, looming intimidatingly over everything, including the comparatively Lilliputian clothesline. “Leave him to die, I say. If anything can kill him, that is.”

Well. Peter still couldn’t leave the cat to die, even if it did appear to be a public menace. It was a vicious-looking beast with its fur singed off of it in large patches, revealing burn scars that made Peter wince to look at them. It was dressed, inexplicably, in a red baby-sized hoodie, presumably to keep it snug and cozy in the absence of its natural coat.

Huh. So maybe someone with a death wish _had_ bothered to be kind to the cat, once. The filthy hoodie looked like it’d been dragged around for a decade, at least. Did cats live that long? Peter had no idea. He was an expert on spiders, and all he knew about cats was that they often ate spiders. That didn’t incline him to be overly fond of cats, but there was a pitifulness to this neglected tomcat that tugged on his heartstrings. Being universally hated and incurably alone was exactly what Peter had endured during That Episode he refused to dwell on.

Plus, the cat paused in its systematic mauling of the tree-trunk to gaze down at Peter with oddly intelligent eyes, like it was sizing Peter up. Peter raised his wrist to shoot his web up to the cat and bring it safely to the ground, but Deadpool chose that moment to parkour acrobatically off the tree and land before Peter on all fours, like a goddamn Olympic gymnast, posing showily despite its scars.

Peter gaped.

Was this cat trying to impress him? What?

This was definitely the strangest incident of Peter’s month, and that was counting the baker plotting to assassinate the mayor with a poisoned wedding cake.

Peter turned to exit the scene and do some genuine crime-fighting, but Deadpool stubbornly followed him, crossing one block and another and another, until Peter reached a skyscraper tall enough to carry him away.

As Peter swung upward, the cat shrank into a tiny speck on the pavement, and Peter told himself he was irrational for thinking it was a disappointed speck.

He wasn’t abandoning a helpless animal to a community that despised it.

 

* * *

 

As it happened, Peter didn’t have to feel guilty about the cat—because it materialized on his doorstep that evening.

“How,” said Peter flatly, as Deadpool sat outside the apartment, its hairless, ratlike tail thumping eagerly on the entrance mat. “Are you a mutant? Do you have superpowers? Did you hitch a ride on a bus? ’Cause there’s no way you could walk from where you were to where I am.”

The cat sucked on its paw and and gave Peter what Peter could only describe as a flirtatious wink.

“I’m getting delusional,” Peter said. “Awesome. I’m starting to imagine that cats are hitting on me.”

Deadpool purred in agreement.

“C’mon in, then.” Peter sighed and ushered the cat in. “This building does allow pets, but I can’t afford any, so you can’t stay. Besides, I’m not about to foist you on Mrs. Al next door.”

 

* * *

 

Weeks passed. Little did Peter realize that he would come to regret his invitation, because like a vampire, the cat kept inventing new modes of entry into his apartment, even after Peter ceased letting it in. Letting _him_ in, because Peter couldn’t persist in calling the damn cat “it” after seeing its hideous mug on a daily basis.

Initially, Peter considered contacting the local animal shelter to have the cat officially removed, because it didn’t take a genius to figure out why Deadpool was so deeply loathed in his original neighborhood.

Deadpool killed things. All types of things. Small things. Big things. Every species from bony sparrows to rodents fattened on back-alley trash. How this much killing was possible, Peter had no clue; Deadpool was more like a professional assassin than a cat. Worse, he deposited his corpses at Peter’s feet, like tributes, and then proceeded to perform that suggestive staring-and-licking routine, sometimes lifting his hind leg and rimming his own ass for Peter’s dubious pleasure.

Or rather, for Peter’s scandalized, get-away-from-me horror.

“Look, you gotta stop with the mass murder,” Peter said seriously. “What are you, a feline serial killer? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t wanna know.” And why was Peter so compelled to talk to Deadpool like he would to a proper person? It didn’t make any sense.

Deadpool idly chewed on the vomit-colored carpet.

“I mean it,” Peter said. “How about this? If you stop bringing me dead bodies, I’ll let you sit on my lap. Deal?”

Deadpool paused. All over. He stared at Peter like an apostle would at Jesus, and that near-religious worship made Peter antsy.

“Well?”

Deadpool leaped onto Peter’s lap, so heavy that Peter huffed out an “oomph.”

Yeah, so there was the freakiness of Deadpool understanding what Peter said. Peter was going to ignore that, because not ignoring it would lead to paying a shrink to restore his sanity, and Peter didn’t have the funds for that.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to spend on cat food, either, given that Deadpool hunted or scavenged for his own meals, and seemed to harbor a preference for fresh blood.

And now, Deadpool was on Peter’s lap, as promised, slowly and bizarrely melting into a puddle of liquid cat. A puddle that wasn’t even adorable, because there was no fur to speak of that Peter could pet, just… tough, scarred hide under the torn-up hoodie. Peter guessed he was lucky that Deadpool had even cooperated with taking off that stinking hoodie to wash it, a while back.

Nonetheless, Peter felt obliged to pet Deadpool, because petting was an unspoken part of the lap deal. Wasn’t it?

The puddle began to purr. A constant, steady purr, surprisingly soothing, and Deadpool’s warm weight on Peter’s thighs wasn’t that unpleasant. It was almost… nice. Comforting. Homey.

Christ. How isolated was Peter, to be this desperate for companionship?

After Deadpool fell asleep under the even, meditative stroking of Peter’s hands, Peter glanced at his dented dialup telephone.

He didn’t ring the shelter, after all.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Peter noticed that a distinctly cattish shadow was following him during patrols, with that same uncanny instinct for picking up on Peter’s scent that had probably led Deadpool to Peter’s apartment in the first place. Peter briefly contemplated buying a cage, but it wasn’t like he had any illusions about containing or controlling Deadpool. Or explaining Deadpool’s behavior with any theory that didn’t violate the laws of both physics and zoology.

Deadpool’s status as a supercat was soon confirmed by the papers, which had photos of him splashed across their cover pages along with photos of Spider-Man, proclaiming: “Spidey’s New Sidekick: In A Matching Red Costume!”

Of course, it wasn’t a matching red costume.That implied Peter had created it, that Peter had deliberately chosen Deadpool’s red to match his.

But it hadn’t been his choice. It’d been Deadpool’s.

Just like scratching the face off any villain that dared to approach Peter was also Deadpool’s choice.

Peter must be nuts to be happy about that. Just because he was the only human who’d treated Deadpool decently in however many years, it didn’t make Deadpool _his_ , especially now that Mrs. Al, the li’l ol’ blind lady living down the hall, had taken an unexpected shine to Deadpool, too.

And then there was the name stitched into the neck of Deadpool’s outfit, just underneath the hoodie, a faded label reading “Property of Vanessa.” Peter didn’t recognize the name from the telephone directory of the suburb Peter had found Deadpool in, so he couldn’t begin to locate who might have been Deadpool’s true owner. In a city as massive as New York, it was an impossibility.

Given how ancient the hoodie was, could Vanessa even be alive? Peter pictured an elderly woman in a pastel pink cardigan, dying a lonely death without her cat, and got depressed.

Deadpool was a stray. Sure, he’d shacked up with Peter because it was convenient, but—

Was Peter honestly angsting about a _cat_? A cat he didn’t even like, most days?

He’d have to invite Gwen and Harry over for dinner, one of these weekends, just to distract himself. It was better than sitting around and wondering if Aunt May would have liked Deadpool, if she’d lived.

 

* * *

 

The dinner was a disaster. Peter had thought Deadpool’s jealous standoffishness around Gwen was bad, but Harry? Deadpool yowled and launched himself at Harry like a projectile with claws, and only Peter’s spider-swift reflexes prevented Harry from being ripped to hundreds of Harry-shaped shreds.

“What the heck is wrong with you?” Peter whispered to Deadpool, locking the hissing cat in his bedroom, from where Deadpool continued to yowl and scratch for the rest of the night.

“I have to apologize,” Peter said after dessert, as sincerely as he could manage with Deadpool’s howling ringing in his ears. “I can’t figure out what’s gotten into him. He’s not like this, usually.”

“You have a ‘usually’ with that thing?” Harry laughed. It was like his old laughs, condescending and snide, and Peter bristled despite himself. Still, he’d promised Gwen he’d give Harry a chance, at her and Harry’s wedding, and Peter believed in keeping his promises.

“Ha ha,” Peter said, hoping he didn’t sound too fake. “Yep.”

Gwen shook her head and smiled. “Oh, Peter. You haven’t changed. You’re so sweet, adopting that poor creature when nobody else would.”

“Er,” said Peter, deciding not to mention how Deadpool had basically steamrolled his way into Peter’s life. “Thanks.”

Deadpool’s howl stretched on and on, like an audible version of mozzarella.

Harry flinched. “If you need to get rid of him,” he said, but at Gwen’s sharp glare, he quickly amended, “ _humanely_ , then you could just sell him to Oscorp’s animal testing facilities. They’ve been reformed since my dad’s era. No more abuse, no more crappy shit like the Ajax Project.”

Behind the bedroom door, Deadpool went suddenly, abruptly silent. Like his throat had been slit.

It had Peter’s hair standing on end. “What project was that?” he asked, hushed without meaning to be.

“The brainchild of a psychopathic vet. Francis whatever. Can’t remember much about him, ’cause I only met him at a company party when I was five, but I do remember he was scary as fuck. Wanted to convert domestic pets into immortal, super-intelligent, lethal weapons, mostly by torturing them. It frightened the pants off me, lemme tell ya. Had nightmares for days.”

Gwen patted Harry’s arm consolingly. “That’s over and done with. Harry’s right, Peter. Oscorp’s passed all the ethical animal testing standards there are. And it’s only behavioral research, very humane, nothing invasive or chemical or painful.” She beamed. “Harry’s proud of it, and so am I.”

“That’s great,” Peter replied, his mind gradually putting the puzzle-pieces together. “I appreciate the suggestion,” he heard himself saying, as if from a distance, as Harry and Gwen said their farewells.

As soon as they’d left, Peter immediately strode to the bedroom, unlocking the door and throwing it wide. He dropped to his knees, opening his arms, and Deadpool was in them in an instant.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, hugging Deadpool tighter to him than normal cats would permit, but Deadpool wasn’t normal, was he? “I’m so sorry. I had the answer right there, but it didn’t occur to me. Did Vanessa sell you to Ajax? Or save you from it? Or just find you after you’d escaped?”

Deadpool couldn’t reply in sentences. Of course he couldn’t. But he purred and purred and purred, and it was a terrified purr, loud and unremitting, utterly unlike the low murmuring vibration that Peter had unwittingly grown fond of.

This time, when Peter ran his fingers over Deadpool’s ruined skin, he could visualize the cruelty that had damaged it. He could envision the torment that must’ve gone on and on, but it hadn’t broken Deadpool’s spirit. It’d made him damned peculiar, that was for certain, but Deadpool was a good cat. He was Peter’s cat.

Peter must’ve knelt there for ages, shushing Deadpool, offering what solace he could. Even the mangy, pseudo-roadkill carpet beneath them was more attractive than what remained of Deadpool’s fur, but it was _Deadpool’s_ fur, proof that he’d survived a living hell, and that was all that mattered.

At last, after Deadpool had quietened and Peter had calmed down, Deadpool stood on Peter’s folded legs and placed his front paws on Peter’s chest. He mewed inquiringly, like he was worried about Peter. It was a raspy, rusty meow, from a cat unused to expressing affection. A cat that people had chased out of town after town, refusing to give it a home.

Why? Because Deadpool had been hurt? Because it showed?

Deadpool licked the wetness from Peter’s closed eyes, and Peter let him.

 

* * *

 

A month became two months, became three, became twelve, and Peter mystified Gwen and Harry by hanging onto his wacky cat. But for Peter, it wasn’t an option. Deadpool was necessary to him, and Peter wasn’t going to let former Ajax employees get their hands on Deadpool, particularly since Peter had noticed that Deadpool _did_ heal fast enough to be practically immortal.

Deadpool would outlive every owner he’d ever have. It was kind of sad. Maybe someday, Deadpool would wear something of Peter’s, like he wore that hoodie of Vanessa’s.

Peter tried not to think about it.

On their anniversary—because why not call it that?—Peter woke up to his cat humping his bare leg. Again.

He yawned, getting up and dislodging a persistent Deadpool, who promptly climbed onto Peter’s foot and resumed humping him.

“Bloody one-track cat,” Peter muttered, still too hazy from sleep to inject much vitriol into his words. “I’d have you neutered, except you’d just heal from it. And I wouldn’t put you under a knife, anyway, after what you’ve been through.”

Deadpool growled against Peter’s ankle.

“Why don’t you go out there and bag yourself a pretty girl-cat to impregnate? You may not have noticed, but I’m not your species, and I’m not female. Stop trying to get me pregnant.”

Deadpool didn’t stop.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Quit acting like a kitten in heat when you’re, like, a million years old. In cat years.” He plucked a still-rutting Deadpool off of him and dropped the cat onto the bed. “Use the sheets, if you have to,” he said. “They smell like me.”

With Deadpool duly diverted, Peter did his morning push-ups on his threadbare yoga mat and wandered off for a shower, not even startled to discover Deadpool watching him through the foggy shower-glass a few minutes later.

“What, premature ejaculation problems? Or are you just a creepy, voyeuristic stalker?”

Deadpool blinked innocently at Peter.

“Don’t gimme that bullshit. Like you weren’t doing an R-rated rendition of Humpty Dumpty a just short while ago.” Peter got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and padded out of the bathroom. “Gear up. We’ve got work to do for the Bugle. Today’s the day we take photos of everyone’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man and his not-so-friendly sidekick.”

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Милый Котеночек](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7307860) by [FSergeich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FSergeich/pseuds/FSergeich)
  * [[PODFIC] Sweet Pussy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13313439) by [Loolph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loolph/pseuds/Loolph)




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